


Honest To God Fucking

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: Indulgence [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: But He's Going To Work Through Them, Clint Has Issues, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't think he's ready for what Phil has asked. But did he fully understand the request?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honest To God Fucking

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [prompt list](http://desert-neon.tumblr.com/post/81753304099/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you-a).
> 
> An anon asked for number 16: _having some “private time” and the other accidentally walking in_.
> 
> **Warning:** Clint is dealing with some internalized homophobia. There is also a quote from someone expressing homophobia towards him as a kid. Please be aware of this in regard to your own limits and well being.

Clint hated ops without Coulson. Absolutely hated them. Something always went wrong, something Coulson would have predicted, would have planned for. When he’d been called out, he’d stupidly been grateful for the time away, for the impeccable timing of the call. Phil had just asked him something and he’d frozen, he’d gone still and hadn’t said a word, trying desperately to figure out _what_ to say. He _knew_ he’d screwed up. This thing with Phil was three months old now, and Clint still hadn’t settled into the idea that it might be permanent. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Boot, actually. Heavy, industrial, steel-toed boot that would make a very loud thud when it hit the floor.

But Coulson — Phil — had given him a smile and told him it was fine, they could wait, and not to worry or obsess over it. He’d said that Clint’s head needed to be in the game, and he’d kissed him and sent him off, and Clint had left, he’d practically _sprinted_ out of Phil’s apartment to meet his pick-up.

And now he was back. It was late, and Clint was exhausted, sore and bruised. But he needed to be a fucking man and face this. If this was going to end, if Phil’s question and Clint’s complete inability to handle it were the deal breaker, well. It was probably for the best. Phil deserved someone whole, someone better. A man who didn’t freeze and panic at the very thought of gay sex.

Clint closed his eyes as the elevator door slid shut. Handjobs were great. Rutting against each other? A+. Blowjobs were fucking fantastic. He hadn’t expected he’d get turned on every time he went down on Phil, but he did. But actual penetrative anal sex (to use Phil’s words)? When he thought about it, he’d start to think that it wouldn’t be so bad, that it could maybe even be good. He trusted Phil, trusted him like he trusted no one else, except maybe Nat. Phil would probably make sure it was good, would take his time and be careful and not only would he not hurt Clint, but he’d pull out every trick he knew to make sure Clint enjoyed it.

And every time — every goddamn time — he started thinking like that, every time he thought he might actually like it, the curtain of shame crashed down and he heard Barney’s voice in his head. _You are not a fag. Bartons aren’t fags. We might be bastards and drunks and total fucking idiots, but we ain’t no goddamn queers taking it up the ass. Get the fuck out of here, go find Trick. He was looking for you. And Clint? I ever catch you making eyes at some towny **boy** like that again, never mind Trickshot. **I’ll** skin you. Understand?_

He didn’t know how to say any of that to Phil, but he had to try. He owed him that, and so much more. So he collected himself as the elevator slowed and stopped, and took deep breaths as he walked the corridor to Phil’s apartment. He debated knocking, unsure of his welcome, but he’d never once knocked on the man’s door. Even before they’d started this thing between them, Clint had always just let himself in, either through the front door or a window. (He’d been shocked to learn his bioscan was actually a recognized and authorized signature for entry. Apparently Phil had trusted him long before Clint had trusted Phil. Which shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise as it had been.) So he pressed his thumb to the hidden pad and opened the door, moving silently out of long habit.

The front of the apartment was dark, but there was a sliver of light coming from underneath the bedroom door, and Clint was glad he wasn’t going to have to wake Coulson up. The man was always grumpy when his sleep was interrupted, and this break up was going to be hard enough as it was.

A low moan sounded as Clint stepped into the hallway, and his feet faltered, for once not sure and steady. He stopped and cocked his head, only to hear a quiet, muttered, “Fuck.”

Clint’s blood began to boil. Sure, he’d figured Coulson was going to dump him. He deserved it. And Coulson could do better. But he’d never figured the man as someone who would do _this_. Who would fucking cheat. What the fuck. Clint might not be perfect and he might not be good enough for Phil, but he deserved better than that. And Coulson — Phil — had always treated him better than Clint had deserved.

So, seriously. What the fuck?

He moved forward quickly, intent now on catching them in the act, in reading Coulson the riot act. Maybe this was better, actually. This way Clint would get to be the injured party, would get to hide behind righteous indignation, and he’d be able to pretend he hadn’t screwed it up so spectacularly three weeks prior. He braced himself for what might he might find, and threw open the door.

“What the—” His words cut off abruptly as he took in the sight before him. Phil. Phil alone in the room. Phil on his knees on the bed, one hand braced on the headboard and one hand . . . Oh, holy fuck. Clint swallowed around a suddenly dry throat and stared at the place where Phil’s own fingers disappeared into his body.

Fingers that were out now, slick and shiny with lube, that braced on the bed as Phil turned. He had his mask on, the one that said _I am in complete control and no one dare question me_ , but his cheeks were flushed and his chest was rising and falling sharply and there was a slight glaze to his eyes. He’d been close, Clint knew. Extremely close.

“I thought the op was scheduled to end tomorrow,” he said, and his voice was remarkably even and calm. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Clint managed to say, unsticking his voice with effort. “Objective achieved early. Already debriefed and everything. So when you asked about actual honest to god fucking, you weren’t talking about _me_ taking it up the ass, were you?”

Phil blinked, a slow, deliberate sweep of lashes that Clint knew was a cover for surprise. That was all right. Clint was pretty surprised by his own words too. “Not necessarily,” Phil replied slowly. He was being cautious, choosing his words and demeanor with care, but there was an undercurrent of amusement. “I enjoy it both ways. I also enjoy all the things we’ve done thus far. The most important thing, Clint, is that you’re comfortable.”

Clint was standing by the bed before he’d even realized he’d moved. “Right now I’d be more comfortable fucking you,” he said as he reached out and grabbed Phil underneath his thighs. He tugged and Phil went sprawling, very clearly amused now.

“Condoms are in the drawer,” he said with a nod to the bedside table. “And the lube is there by the pillow.”

Clint undressed in record time, got a condom on his dick, covered it in lube, and positioned himself over Phil, lining himself up. He didn’t want to give himself time to think. 

“Clint.” Phil’s voice was quiet and serious, and Clint looked up to meet his eyes. “We will have to talk about this later. About your hang-ups. We don’t ever have to switch if it isn’t something you enjoy, but it shouldn’t be fear or shame that stops you.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat and looked down again, ashamed of his own issues and afraid of what Phil might have to say. “Is this okay though?” he asked, pressing forward against Phil’s stretched entrance lightly.

“Yes,” Phil said simply, and Clint gathered himself and raised his head. Phil sent him a smile and wrapped his legs around Clint’s waist. “Fuck me, Clint.”

Releasing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, Clint pushed forward. It was . . . different. Tight. There was a resistance, and then a give, that he wasn’t used to. Phil inhaled sharply and tilted his head back, and Clint leaned forward to lick a stripe up his throat as he continued to inch his way inside.

“Clint,” Phil said again, and this time it was low and sexy, and Clint’s body respond automatically, pushing hard and deep and sliding home, causing Phil to groan.

Clint had to kiss him. He _had_ to. By the time the kiss was over, Clint’s hips were thrusting to a rhythm and Phil’s fingers were digging into his back and it was hot. It was hot and it was gay and it wasn’t _bad_. It wasn’t dirty or shameful or disgusting, and it wasn’t something he needed to hide. It was Phil. It was Phil and it was Clint and they were okay. They were going to be okay.


End file.
